CARLTON FLETCHER: Lousy customer service leaves a fowl taste

I like my chicken fried.

– Zac Brown Band

I’m not going to unfairly paint an entire local industry with a tainted brush, but with a very few exceptions, the recent experiences Tara and I have had are similar to many others’ … or at least according to social media posts and angry words of mouth.

And before I get into this, let me say from the get-go that I understand that we all have bad days, that the aggravations of life can put a damper on everything that gets in our way on a given day. And, typically, when that happens most of us can get a bit testy – a case of the mullygrubs, we used to say – frequently to the point that even those we love risk a glare or harsh words if they offer even a harmless comment.

(And, yes, that happens with even the most seemingly calm, cool and collected among us. Which is why I frequently see Alan and Kathryn either a) hiding their childish glee or b) rolling their eyes on the other side of the divider between our desks after my curse-filled outbursts when my damned computer acts up again. No user-error involved, of course.)

But what has the Fletchers’ “that-was-the-last-straw” dander up has to do with a local restaurant … or, more accurately, with people who work at a local eating establishment,

I’m not going to name this particular establishment, but I will note that its primary catchphrase has to do with the unsavory act of placing one’s fingers in their mouth to lick off what sometimes is an abundance of grease. And its “secret recipe” is closely guarded by a man of high military rank.

The restaurant – which many of the sharper among you may have guessed – primarily sells chicken, much like 40 to 50 other establishments around here. Albany, one would think, has followed the slogan of another yardbird seller and is busy “eatin’ more chikin.”

And with so many recipe-specific franchises – as well as ones that are not of the fast-food variety – selling essentially the same product, logic would suggest that owners and employees of chicken-dominant establishments would take advantage of a stellar national marketing campaign and offer the kind of customer service that would encourage customers to come back for more.

Not this local establishment … which, incidentally, is strategically located at a prime northwest Albany location.

Tara and I, by the way, are frequent friers (ahem) at this restaurant because a) we love their chicken and b) it’s “right down the street.” I guess I should amend that statement: Tara and I WERE frequent buyers at this frankly costly establishment. After our last experience there, we’ve vowed to never give the colonel and his army any more of our money.

It started a couple of months ago when Tara ordered a big ole bucket of chicken online … you know, to get our food quicker and for the “convenience.” But when Tara arrived at the establishment and went inside to get the food, she was told they were “out of chicken” and wouldn’t have any ready for about 25 minutes.

She cancelled the order.

The next time Tara went to get us some of these special-herbs-and-spices-infused legs and thighs, she decided to give the drive-thru a go. Mistake. After sitting for 35 minutes in a snail-like caravan of customers, Tara finally got to the speaker to order.

You’ll never guess … “We’re out of chicken; we’ll have some ready in 30 minutes or so.”

Strike two.

Last week, I guess to prove the point that some people’s short-term memory capability is sorely lacking, Tara went back to the same restaurant. This time there was a new wrinkle.

After following the slow-moving flock ahead of her and finally reaching the order walkie-talkie, Tara gave her order, pulled up and paid for her order.

“Can you pull over there? We’ll have your order ready in a bit,” she was told.

Forty-five minutes later, a fuming Tara was delivered her order … with no apology for the wait, no concern for her inconvenience. She was incensed, and when she explained to me why a four-piece meal took more than an hour to get ready, we exchanged a few not-so-customer-friendly words and made a promise not to give this poorly-managed establishment another penny of our money.

Some may say we’re overreacting, but when a restaurant takes a period of time that a good country cook could wring a chicken’s neck, pluck it, gut it, flower it up and fry it to delicious golden brown, our last frayed nerve gave out.

I told Tara I planned to reach out to this establishment’s corporate offices and share my complaints, and I probably will. I do know for a fact, though, that when I eat fried chicken in the future, I will not be licking my fingers when I’m through.

Email Carlton Fletcher at [email protected].